Reforging the Family
by Lawless67
Summary: In order to become whole again, the family must gather its shattered pieces and journey through the fire once more. A series of one-shots set after Bruce's death. Rated T for language.
1. The Brother Within

**A/N**: So, this is going to be the first in a series of one-shots that will feature the various Robins (also Alfred) after Bruce's supposed death—basically an excuse to fix their relationships and make them cuddle. I'm not exactly happy with the way this one turned out, but hopefully it will lead to better things. As ever, I own nothing. Enjoy, and please review!

_I'm so confused I don't know what to feel,_

_Should I throw my arms around you or kill you for real?_

'_Cause I worked so hard to put the past to rest,_

_Now it's tumbling down on me just like an avalanche,_

_So you can't just come back now like a demon uninvited,_

_No you can't just expect me to open my door to you_

-Skylar Grey, Back From the Dead

Damian's exit of the dining room is accompanied by the shatter and splash of a full ceramic cereal bowl that had been his breakfast and the grating crash of the heavy mahogany chair against the floor. That's the third time this week that a simple meal has ended in broken dishes and smothering silence.

And if Dick can't contain the weary sigh that slips past his lips, he thinks he's entitled.

Alfred enters predictably through the swinging kitchen door, towel and broom in hand. He makes no comment, but there is a tightness to his lips that gives Dick the urge to squirm like a child caught at some wrongdoing. He scrubs a hand over his mouth to halt the words he feels obligated to utter in his brother's defense.

He _knows _Damian's behavior is exceptionally awful.

He just isn't sure how to properly discipline a child who lost his father a bare month ago.

Both Alfred and the cereal disaster are gone now, leaving Dick alone once more with the impossible burden of his thoughts. The four scant weeks since Bruce's death have been filled with nothing but silence and little-concealed tension. There are four people in this house, but it doesn't feel lived in, not anymore.

The manor's inhabitants are scattered amongst their own domains.

Damian is no doubt entombed within the bowels of the cave, surrounded by his dead father's legacy and numerous sharp objects, which can be thrown at anyone who dares invade his space. Bruce's death seems to have cancelled out any progress towards emotional normality Damian may have made, and the nine-year-old is as prickly—and violent—as ever.

Tim hasn't bothered to come out of his room since dinner yesterday, and he only picked at that. Dick is worried, and not without cause. The teen rarely speaks, and in the past few weeks seems to have dropped several pounds he can't afford to lose. Tim's mind is a complicated place and, Dick thinks, not a completely healthy one right now.

Alfred is in the kitchen once more. An inviting aroma permeates Dick's consciousness, and he realizes that the butler has left him a fresh cup of coffee without him noticing. Cupping his icy hands—they are always cold now—around the mug, Dick is brought nearly to tears in gratitude for the old man's presence in their lives. Sometimes he feels that that unfaltering British stoicism is the only thing holding him up—well, that and Alfred's blueberry scones.

And Dick—Dick doesn't seem to know where he belongs anymore. Every single room in this enormous, extravagant house feels wrong now. There is no respite from his damned inheritance, no peace to be found in it.

_God, Bruce, _he thinks with a humorless huff of laughter, _for all that you were an uncommunicative, sullen bastard, for all the multitudes of children you left strewn in your wake, this house is empty without you. _

His face has found its now familiar resting place in his hands when he hears the intentional scuff of heavy boots behind him.

"I take it the demon isn't a fan of Cocoa Puffs."

Dick doesn't lift his head, but snorts derisively.

"It would seem not," he replies in lieu of a greeting. Jason has never been one for niceties. "I should've bought Lucky Charms."

Jason's bark of laughter is not entirely unpleasant. With his usual disregard for invitation or welcome, Jason takes a seat two chairs down from Dick, slouching negligently against the armrest.

Dick abandons the shelter of his hands to scrutinize his wayward brother. Jason wears civvies, tattered jeans, a plain black tee, and a well-used leather jacket. His expression is—well, not pleasant—but not angry or suggestive of an imminent fit of rage and daddy issues.

"How'd you get past the sensors I put on the widows?"

Jason snorts. "Contrary to common belief, I do actually know how to use a door, golden boy." He draws one ankle to rest casually on the opposite knee, the picture of ease.

Dick's eyebrows shoot up. "You got past Alfred? Even better. I'm impressed."

"What can I say, I'm an impressive guy," Jason shrugs. "But no, idiot wonder, I rang the doorbell."

"Oh," Dick says sheepishly. He rubs gritty eyes. "Sorry. Not quite at the top of my game lately."

Jason's eyes are on him, a slight crease between his brows. "Yeah, I'd guess a severe lack of sleep isn't conducive to stellar detective work." This is followed by a pointed look.

Dick almost laughs again. It seems both Jason and Alfred want to reduce him to the age of five today.

"I'm a big boy, Jason, I think I can handle it."

There's suddenly a mountain of brother inches away from him. A calloused fingertip skims the deep purple under his eyes, the half-healed cut along his jaw where one of Damian's temper tantrums got a little too close.

"No, Dickie, you can't. And you shouldn't have to, not alone," Jason falters, continues hesitantly, "Look, I don't know how to—Alfred…he called, and I—"

Dick blinks, and finds suddenly that he is unspeakably angry.

"Oh, Alfred called. Okay."

He stands abruptly, nearly sending his chair crashing to the floor Damian-style.

"Where the _fuck _do you come in, huh? Since when are you a damn Hallmark card?" He gestures wildly, unsure of where this has come from, and unable to stop.

"I reached out to you, Jay, so many times. Me and Bruce and Tim—poor Tim who worships the fucking ground you walk on, who you almost _murdered_—and you couldn't get over your damn grievances and let us help you! We_ wanted_ to help you, couldn't you see that? And now, all of a sudden, Bruce is dead and, hey, you're fine! The prodigal son returns, but only when the father is taking a dirt nap six feet under, right?"

"I don't know!" Jason returns when Dick pauses for breath. "What do you want me to say? I was messed up, okay? I am messed up, and I spent a whole lot of years blaming Bruce for that sick clown's existence and my own awful self, when it wasn't his fault. And now he's gone, and I don't know what the fuck to do. I…I don't know." The younger man stutters to a halt.

"I didn't expect it to _hurt_ so much," Jason whispered. "When—when they told me, I went out and I came back bloody, and I don't remember a damn thing. And then Alfred called, and I thought maybe there might be someone out there hurting like I hurt, and I just…came here. It's not like I expect you to forgive me, or anything, I'm still messed up. But I thought maybe we could…be messed up together."

Jason seems to deflate as he finishes speaking, glaring at Dick with a horrible mixture of hope and grief and pride in his eyes.

"You hurt me. You stole my brother from me," Dick accuses quietly.

"Tim recovered, he's fine," Jason protests.

"I wasn't talking about Tim. Last time I checked I had three brothers. And only two of them are currently living in this house."

"Oh." The word whooshes out like Jason has just been on the receiving end of a quick, hard jab to the stomach. He can't seem to catch his breath.

"I just…I want my brother back." Dick looks at the floor, the ceiling, anywhere but the confusion and shame on Jason's face. "I've lost too many. My parents and—" his voice breaks, "and Bruce. And I just need you to give him back to me. Can you do that?"

It's Jason's turn to avoid eye contact now.

"I don't know if he still exists."

Jason's voice is broken and barely audible, and it makes Dick unbearably sad.

The heat of their anger has driven them closer together, and Dick reaches out and clutches a fistful of Jason's shirt, not at the neck, but at his side.

"I do. I see him sometimes, and I wish you'd let him come home."

Jason remains silent, but slowly, hesitantly, he raises his left hand to tangle in the sleeve of Dick's shirt at his shoulder. He stands there, frozen, for a moment with his eyes squeezed tightly shut, like he's afraid any show of affection will be met with violence. When no blow befalls him, his face eases slightly, though his eyes remain closed. The tension drains from his body and he slumps, the fight gone out of him, leaning ever so subtly towards Dick.

Dick is versed enough in the nonverbal cues of tight-lipped brothers to recognize a truce when he sees one.

He steps forward, careful to preserve the tentative link of Jason's grip on his shirt, so that he stands bare inches from his brother. It is not precisely a hug. Neither lifts their arms, but Dick's chin digs into his brother's collarbone, while Jason's sits almost comfortably on his shoulder.

They stay that way for the length of several heartbeats. Then Jason lets his chin drag down over Dick's shoulder, forehead coming to rest in the curve of his elder brother's neck. His respiration is a warm, unsteady ebb and flow against Dick's chest.

"Okay," he breathes.


	2. Guardian

**A/N**: I had some extra time on my hands, so here's the next sort of one-shot. I needed some Tim cuddles since he kind of got left out of the last chapter. So here you go, read on, and please review :)

Tim doesn't know quite how it happened, but somehow Jason Todd has moved into the room across the hall from his. There was no great proclamation, no killing of the fatted calf. One day he simply rolled out of bed and when he opened the door Jason was picking the lock to his old bedroom, duffel slung over his shoulder. Dick didn't seem surprised, and the demon child isn't fazed by much, but Tim was…bemused. There is a resident in the long-empty room across the hall, where he never thought there'd be one again. He doesn't quite know how he feels about it.

There are a lot of things Tim doesn't know these days.

The first week was rocky, to say the least. Damian was twice his usual sadistic self, and the amount of sharp projectiles usually aimed at Tim's head was now leveled at Jason's. That, at least, Tim can get behind. The respite from ducking flying forks at dinner was a welcome one.

Jason, though, seemed well equipped to handle the little monster's temper tantrums. Yesterday he intercepted one of the hazardous missiles and sent it spinning back at its owner with such force that it stuck, quivering, in the wall—the original perpetrator having ducked with a yelp.

Dick skirts around Jason with a wary combination of joyous disbelief and watchfulness. Tim has noticed how Jason carefully submits to each embrace Dick is brave enough to give him. Submits, but does not return. But still, this is progress for the once half-feral young man. It seems that he is both afraid to reciprocate the affection and afraid to reject it, like Dick will realize he's made a mistake inviting the wayward brother home.

Tim appreciates Jason's effort on Dick's behalf, but that doesn't mean he trusts him.

For the first few years of Tim's foray as Robin, Jason Todd was equal parts legend and ghost. He was the standard against which Tim was judged and the warning unvoiced.

He was a hero, and Tim wanted nothing more than to become him—minus the bloody end, of course.

And then, miraculously, Jason lived, and Tim's idolized image of the child martyr came crashing down around his ears. Tim saw the mingled horror and joy of the former Robin's new existence in his mentor and eldest brother's eyes. Yes, Jason was everything he'd imagined—smart, ruthless, fast, and strong—but he carried a darkness that threatened to swallow himself and anyone who dared get close enough to touch.

Tim had dared, and he'd nearly died for his stupidity.

So Tim keeps his distance now. He avoids eye contact, slips unobtrusively from the room when his predecessor enters. He rises early and is gone from the kitchen by the time the rest of his "family" stumbles down stairs. He pulls long hours in Bruce's study, in the cave, because that door across the hall bothers him in a way that little else does.

He is content with their separate coexistence.

Until today, that is.

The cave always holds a slight chill, and Tim's socks offer little barrier from the cold stone. He hooks his ankles around the legs of the stool he is perched on, and tugs the neck of his red sweatshirt higher. He is grateful for the quiet his brothers' absence provides, as it is more conducive to the delicate work he has in mind today. The razor wire he is adapting for League use is so thin as to be nearly invisible, and he already has a handful of little nicks scattered across his hands. But gloves make his fingers bulky and clumsy, and he can handle a little sting in the name of genius.

Dick is attending to some or the other form of legal business with the company, and had left the manor earlier with the air of someone about to attend their own hanging. Jason is somewhere upstairs avoiding Alfred's constant attempts to shove more nutritious food down his throat—and also probably dodging the numerous college brochures the kindly butler keeps slipping under his door. Damian is likely sealed in his room with his assorted animal friends, no doubt plotting some wickedness against his housemates or the world at large.

Tim is alone with his project. Peace is a welcome companion.

He is weaving the wire into the beginnings of a net when the first bang sounds.

A bright flash and billows of smoke accompany the near-deafening sound. In the confusion, Tim unconsciously clenches his hands into fists.

He can't help but cry out as the wire slashes his hands to a myriad of ribbons of blood.

Second and third smoke bombs follow the first, leaving Tim disoriented. Only the knowledge that they are Bat-made diversions allows Tim to remain in his workstation this long, endeavoring to protect his bloodstained work. Before he can dive off the stool and attempt to crawl to safety, the current Robin's bird-a-rang flashes out of the haze, catching Tim across the temple and sending him sprawling on the cold concrete, head cracking sharply against the hard surface.

There is the thunder of footsteps down the stone stairs and the whir of a fan switched on.

Tim opens his eyes to find Damian dangling two feet off the ground, courtesy of Jason Todd.

"Todd! Release me at—"

"Shut. Up." Jason's nostrils flare dangerously, and even Damian doesn't defy him. He strides towards Tim's ruined workplace, snags the abandoned seat, and drags it into the corner. He deposits Damian roughly, positioning him facing the cave wall.

"You little shit," he says furiously, "I don't care what issues you have with the Replacement, or Dickiebird, or anyone else in this damn house, you don't get to hurt them just because you feel like it!" His voice had risen steadily, until he is shouting at the cowlick at the crown of Damian's head.

"I didn't mean—" the child protests, attempting to twist around.

Jason stills him, with an uncompromising hand to the back of his neck.

"Oh no, you don't. You just put Red Robin out of commission for three weeks minimum, and if I have anything to say about it, you're going to spend the whole of that time boring holes through this wall with your eyes alone," Jason hissed. "You will not move until either Dick comes to your rescue or the Second Coming rolls around, do I make myself clear?"

"Yes," is the tiny, stony answer.

Satisfied Damian has been properly intimidated, Jason paces back to where Tim is now sitting up dazedly.

"C'mere, Replacement," Jason mutters gruffly.

Tim has little warning before he is plucked unceremoniously off the stone and swung with surprising ease into an unfamiliar pair of arms.

"I—" he objects, one hand dabbing curiously at the sticky wetness that threatens to drip into his right eye.

"Ah, ah," Jason remonstrates, plopping Tim onto one of the beds in the med bay, and restraining the exploring fingers with a firm hand.

The fingertips of one hand just brushing Tim's chest, Jason rummages in the pristine cabinets with the other for the first aid kit. He comes away triumphant, and begins pulling various bits of gauze and tape out of the box, generally making a mess of Alfred's careful organization.

"Let's do your head first, huh? It's harder," he murmurs, and applies an iodine-drenched cotton ball to the area with unexpected gentleness. It still stings, though, and Tim jerks, nearly knocking his head on Jason's collarbone.

"Whoa, there, Baby Bird. Relax. If I'm fixing you, I'm not likely to murder you, now, am I?" Jason places a steadying hand on his shoulder and continues with his work.

Tim is still stiff, but he allows the older man's soft touch to ease the bite of his cuts. He closes his eyes, suddenly unbelievably tired.

"Why?" It's all he has the energy to ask.

He feels rather than sees Jason's shrug.

"Big brother would be upset if he returned to find either of his precious birdies damaged. Might kick the big bad wolf back out on the streets where he belongs." The tone is light, but there's a dry bitterness to the words that belies the speaker's flippancy.

Tim frowns. "He wouldn't. Dick…you matter to him."

Jason glances up, meets Tim's eyes with disconcerting frankness.

"So do you. You're an idiot if you can't see that. And for some godforsaken reason," Jason pitches his voice to be heard by the corner's occupant, "he cares about that little monstrosity, although I can't fathom why."

"_Tt_."

Tim has the inappropriate urge to laugh. Instead, he slumps further into Jason's hold, the elder having finished with his head and moved on to his tattered hands.

Jason whistles. "Damn, Replacement, you don't do things halfway." Tim's hands feel small, cradled as they are within Jason's larger ones.

"Razor wire requires delicate handling. I wasn't expecting…disturbances."

Jason hums in sympathy. "This is going to hurt. A lot."

The bottle is tipped, and Tim lets out half a moan before he stifles any sound in Jason's t-shirt. His breath comes hot and fast against Jason's shoulder.

"Okay," he pants when he realizes the older boy has been saying his name multiple times, "I'm okay."

"I don't think many of them need stitches, just a couple," Jason traces the air over a deep slash in the meat of his thumb. Tim resigns himself to the sharp ache of a needle through skin without the numbing effect of anesthesia. Because using the anesthetic will attract Alfred's attention, Dick's questions, and certain punishment for all parties involved. Not that Tim's mummified hands won't draw inquiries, but bandages hide a lot.

Several minutes later, the sutures are in place—not pretty, but functional—and Tim's body is so wilted against Jason they might as well be a single person.

Jason supports the younger boy with one arm while he shoves the medical supplies back into their case and tosses the kit into its cabinet haphazardly.

"Alright, kid, nap time," he announces.

Tim lifts his head groggily, blue eyes hazy with pain. "I don't need—"

"Upstairs or down here. Those are your only options, slim," Jason interrupts.

The younger boy frowns, the consideration of mutiny flits across his face, and then gives in.

"Here. Alfie will see."

"Right-o, then." Jason scowls at the bed Tim is currently sitting on. "There's blood everywhere. We're relocating."

Before Tim can protest, he's scooped up and deposited on the next cot over. Jason pushes him down against the pillow with one hand, and Tim draws his bulkily bandaged hands to his chest and complies.

"Damian is still in the corner," he comments sleepily.

"Oh, I know," Jason replies. He turns his gaze to the drooping figure. "Damian, you may move your exile to the other bed. You may not speak, other than to apologize to Tim or myself, and if you do anything besides lay there or sleep I will make Dick hug you for extended periods of time. Understand?"

"Yes," comes the significantly subdued voice of the youngest. There's a soft rustle as Damian lies on the third bed, still facing the wall. "I…regret the damage to your hands, Drake. It will make patrol…difficult."

Tim coughs in astonished acknowledgement. Jason grins wolfishly.

"Good. Now both of you go to sleep." With that, Jason tugs the sheet up to cover Tim and settles beside him on the bed. "Scoot, Replacement, I'm not sleeping on your blood, either. If either of you moves before Dick gets home, I'm using the gas to knock you out."

Dick finds them two hours later. Damian has flopped onto his stomach, now facing the opposite bed. Tim is curled around Jason's hip, injured hands still tucked to his heart, forehead nudged into the older boy's side.

Jason merely opens a single eye, gives Dick a look that clearly says _shut the hell up, _and slides it closed again. His arm is hooked around Tim's neck—in affection—his hand buried in Tim's soft hair.

Dick doesn't think he's ever smiled so hard.


	3. Family Dinner

**A/N**: This one is not exactly a one-shot but I'm pretty pleased with how it turned out. At this point, Jason has been living in the manor for about 2-3 months, and Dick has been appointed as Damian and Tim's legal guardian, according to my AU. As some have asked, I do not plan for Cass to make an appearance, as I feel I don't really know her character and am not comfortable writing her. Obviously, some of the various characters' actions don't necessarily fit with canon, but this is mine so I don't apologize. Unfortunately, I own nothing. Happy reading, and please review!

_"We were a strange little band of characters trudging through life sharing diseases and toothpaste, coveting one another's desserts, hiding shampoo, borrowing money, locking each other out of our rooms, inflicting pain and kissing to heal it in the same instant, loving, laughing, defending, and trying to figure out the common thread that bound us all together."_

― Erma Bombeck

"Phones."

The voice is Dick's, but the commanding, no-opposition-tolerated tone is drastically different than his usual friendly cheer. Because it is not Dick Grayson, brother, speaking, but rather Officer Grayson of Bludhaven PD—even though Dick hasn't worn that mantle for well over three months now.

Jason winces and bristles out of long ingrained habit, because he and cops have a varied, unpleasant history that didn't end the day he attempted to steal the tires off the ride of Gotham's protector.

Dick hasn't stopped glaring, so he huffs a sigh and drops his phone into the box held out to him. Jason's submission gained, Dick moves to loom over each of his brothers in turn. Tim tosses his cell into the mix without complaint, but must be ordered, then cajoled, into giving up his mini-tablet, which is concealed in the waistband of his jeans. Damian's phone has already been confiscated as punishment for coercing a muddy Titus to nap—and drool—in Tim's bed last week, but Dick yanks the headphones loose from his youngest brother's ears and plucks the iPod from its hiding place in the boy's hood.

All technology thus gathered, to various complaints, pleas, and threats of disembowelment, Dick lets out a satisfied sigh and delivers said box into the capable hands and steely, eagle-eyed gaze of Alfred.

Jason scowls, Tim drops his head resignedly onto folded arms, and Damian glowers and swings his legs viciously back and forth, hoping to connect with his eldest brother's shin.

They are seated around the dining room table, and this fresh hell on earth is what Dick has taken to calling family dinner.

This recently established new order—or, as Jason prefers to call it, _Dick-_tatorship—has been in place for only three weeks now, and the reception it garners is no more pleasant than the first time.

Jason only scowls harder at the tyrant's smug suggestion that he shouldn't mess up his pretty face like that, and kicks himself internally. After all, this new brand of torture is partly his own fault.

No, he takes that back. This rests entirely on Dick. Down with the bloody despot.

Yes, he agreed that the youngest members of this patchwork family were slipping further into their own misery and solitude. Yes, he agreed they needed to _do_ something together outside of their shared nightlife. He'd been imagining 'Wayne Boys go to Fight Night' or something similar. At least watching other grown men beat on each other would have been interesting, maybe even fun—although, he admitted, some of the semi-illegal moves might have found their way into the manor, resulting in broken vases, furniture, and brothers.

He'd never thought Dick would dream up this monstrosity—an hour of interruption (technology) free Sunday dinner, during which the reluctant members would talk about the events of their week, followed by mandatory movie night in the den. Choice of movie was supposed to rotate through the participants, but so far the younger three had been able to pick films of particularly gory plot to make up for the hideous and unabashed sibling bonding they'd been forced into.

He should've seen it coming. When it comes to bringing unwilling brothers back into the family fold, Dick is a diabolical genius, and quite frankly, Jason is terrified of him.

When he tunes back in to real time, he finds that Alfred has already laid out their supper—steak, in light of Jason's carnivorous proclivities, peas, because the little demon only has a soft heart for animals, and scalloped potatoes, as Dick has this weird thing where he hates the consistency of mashed potatoes. The meal is completed by a glass of chocolate milk, because Tim's bones are bird-light and too breakable, and because Alfred—along with the rest of them—is inclined to indulge the neglected child Tim once was.

Damian insists he is too old for childish things like chocolate milk and requests a glass of wine instead. No is the resounding answer from all sides.

Dinner conversation is stilted, with Dick carrying most of the weight.

Tim and Damian sit on the same side of the table without killing each other for once. This new development is a direct result of the recently implemented, and highly protested, rules. Dick, in all his self-righteousness, has not only visited this horror of family night upon them, but also decreed that all vigilantes under the age of eighteen are forbidden from patrol on three out of five school nights and are to be in bed at eleven 'o'clock on the dot, bar the end of the world or some other disaster.

The younger two, of course, have launched a full-scale attack against the new regime, and, combined, are a formidable, albeit pint-sized, force to be reckoned with. Jason wonders if Dick only keeps this rule in place to preserve the temporary peace between the two.

In any case, Jason stays firmly planted in Switzerland. The crossfire may be the death of him.

If looks could kill, Dick would have used up his nine lives many times over. Damian, who is eating his peas with unnecessary violence, seems to be attempting to burn a hold through his brother's head with his eyes alone, and Jason gives thanks once more that none of them were born with more than human abilities. He doesn't think the world would still be standing otherwise.

Tim keeps his glare centered on his plate, as he, like Jason, has learned that it is wiser to avoid eye contact with Dick. Dick glances up from his precious potatoes, finds Damian's eyes on him, and smiles with the warmth of a thousand suns, like he can't see that the demon spawn wants to murder him.

"So," Dick begins, "Dami, high and low of your week, go."

Damian resists as long as is safe, before Dick decides to condemn him to the drinking of chocolate milk with every meal, then answers with a calmness that immediately puts Jason on edge.

"Well, I suppose the low of this unimportant week was when Mrs. Schulte forced our class to view an asinine film about talking vehicles. It was most idiotic, and I told her so."

Tim chokes on his milk and Damian continues, undisturbed, "It was either that or this horrid abomination that you so seem to enjoy, Grayson," he concludes, waving around the table with his fork, somehow managing to make the gesture threatening.

Dick's smile is considerably dimmer, but he perseveres. "I see. And the high? Surely you liked something," he encourages.

"Oh, yes. The peak of my week has not yet occurred."

"What's that?"

There is a militant light in Damian's eyes that prickles the hair at the back of Jason's neck, but Dick only beams hopefully.

"The event I will most enjoy this week is when I sever your head from your body using only my hands," the child hisses, stabbing his fork through the linen tablecloth and into the polished wood.

Alfred appears as if by magic and plucks the offending utensil from its owner's hand with ease.

"Please, Master Damian, there will be no destruction of the furniture. We were not raised by wolves," the butler intones decisively, replacing the instrument with a much less dangerous plastic version and vanishing again.

Jason is tempted to argue that some of them were.

There is obviously going to be no more out of Damian, who is staring at his new non-deadly fork with a half-bewildered, half-enraged expression. The boy's face is comical, but Jason coughs instead of laughing because he does not want to receive a plasticized piece of silverware to the eye. Dick flits his gaze to Tim, and the teen heaves a put upon sigh.

"I phrmmoof," the boy mumbles into his food.

"What?" Dick queries.

"I _said _I failed my Advanced Psych test," he spits sullenly.

"What?" both Dick and Jason blurt, uncomprehending. Because there is no way that the complexities of any high school course, no matter how advanced, have defeated the genius of Timothy Drake Wayne.

Tim shrugs. "I found the premise of the professor's conclusion to be incorrect, based on the fact that he left out critical information on the subject's personal traumas and relationship analysis between the subject and his mother," the teen snorts derisively. "He thinks the answer to every psychological problem may be found within Freud's Oedipus theory."

Tim glances up to find them staring. "He was wrong, I corrected him, and he decided to be spiteful."

And to Tim, it is that simple. There will be no pretending, no deliberate smothering of his intelligence in order to abide by the rules of others. Jason supposes Dick will be paying the headmaster of Gotham Academy a visit in his rapidly diminishing spare time.

It seems Dick has also reached this conclusion. He sighs wearily. "Dare I ask the high point of your week?"

The glare is back. "Only helping Damian destroy you," Tim states casually.

The conversation flounders for a moment after that, and Damian and Tim give each other a devious, satisfied look at having finally exhausted Dick's endless patience. Dick, however, turns those pleading blue eyes on the last brother.

Jason has a brief and silent internal struggle, and then takes a bite of his steak resignedly. He opens his mouth to speak and prepares to take a stand beside his eldest brother on the field of battle.

* * *

><p>Dinner is completed and movie night commences without fratricide and with little mayhem. Tim and Damian both give Jason silent, wounded looks with big eyes that make him feel as if he is lower than the scum on their shoes. But Dick's face lights up brilliantly and his grin is so wide that Jason feels perhaps he has done the right thing for once.<p>

Unfortunately, it is Dick's turn to pick the movie, which means that they end up watching both _The Lion King _and _Secondhand Lions_, films that Dick deems appropriate for Damian's youth.

Also, since one of the films features only animals, Damian is less likely to annihilate the plot with derisive comments.

Tim is quieter about his anger, and only sits stonily on the big sofa—where he and Damian have retreated to lick their wounds and glare balefully at traitorous older brothers. Dick and Jason have each chosen one of the recliners, well out of reach of any retribution the younger two may be planning.

The room is dark, the well worn couch comfortable and familiar, and Damian, belly full, is nodding heavily by Simba's return. By the time the McCann brothers are shanghaied into the French Legion, he is conked out, stretched out on his stomach, head pillowed on a hand and toes just brushing Tim's leg. Jason looks over a few minutes later to find that Tim, exhausted with the effort of holding a grudge, has also drifted off, curled in the sofa's corner so as not to disrupt Damian.

Jason and Dick finish the movie in glorious silence.

As the credits roll, Jason flicks off the TV with the remote and turns to find Dick observing their still sleeping siblings.

Dick lets a hand hover over Damian's flushed cheek, but doesn't wake him yet.

"I appreciate it, you know," he says quietly, "You picking a side."

Jason huffs. "You'd better, my life's on the line." He pauses. "You do realize they're probably going to kill us, right? Alfred will hush the whole thing up and stuff our bodies up the chimney. At least Santa won't be able to visit the little brats. Serve them right."

Dick grins wryly. Jason rubs a hand over the back of his neck and continues.

"Look, man, I thought you could use some help. Bat-Baby and the Pretender are pretty frightening when they want to be."

"It's good to see them working as a team, even if I am in constant fear for my life—or at least my hair." Dick drags a hand over his head, ruefully massaging the recently shortened spot at the back where one or the other of the terrors had taken a pair of scissors to a large chunk of the black locks while he slept.

He sobers a moment later, eyes still on Damian's peaceful face.

"I only want what's best for them, for them to have _something _normal. Even if that something is watching kiddie movies and going to bed at a reasonable hour three nights a week. Even if it makes them hate me. It's just…I wish they wouldn't."

Dick's shoulders slump, just a little, as his hand finally finds its place, resting softly on Damian's head.

"They don't, Dick. In fact, I'd wager the opposite is true. But neither of them are used to being treated like the children they still are."

Dick blinks. "Insightful," he murmurs. "And you, Jason? You're hardly past childhood yourself."

Jason smiles, a tiny thing, and his eyes are older than they should be. "I haven't been a child for a very long time, brother."

Creases deepen around Dick's eyes and mouth. "That's incredibly sad, Jay."

"Maybe. The truth isn't always pretty," Jason shrugs. "I figure, if you can give them even a little bit of what I lost…well, I'm behind you. All the way. He would want that."

Dick's laugh is no more than a humorless puff of air. "_He _was the one who exposed them to things no child should ever have to see. But then, his actions didn't always correspond with his desires. He never could say what he meant, so he protected their bodies and neglected their souls."

"There are two of us now," Jason comments. "I daresay we're good enough to cover both. But I'm not being held responsible for anyone's soul, or whatever the hell it is. I'm not good with words, Dick, not when they matter."

"Good enough." Dick says simply. "But I've got more than enough words for both of us. Guard their bodies, and I'll try to keep their souls whole. And I hope to God that derelict school can pull together enough to cultivate their ridiculously precocious minds. Parent-teacher conferences may be the death of me."

Jason grins. "Complaining about your brothers' genius, Grayson, you ungrateful wretch."

Dick rolls his eyes theatrically. "I do suffer so," he bemoans. He skims his gaze across their slumbering brethren, Damian's hunched position and the way Tim's neck is tilted uncomfortably back. "They're going to get cricks sleeping like that, you know."

So saying, he slides his hands under Damian's arms and tows him up, propping the small limp body against one shoulder.

Jason sighs. "Sure, take the smallest one." But he moves to the sofa and lays a hand on Tim's side. "Hey, Replacement." No response. He rubs gently. "C'mon, Timmy."

Tim turns his face into the pillow sleepily. "Mmph, Di—" he opens his eyes, "Oh, Jason. What—"

"We're moving the party upstairs, kid. C'mon, up you go." He hauls the teen upright, the boy swaying dangerously. Tim reaches out frantically and snags the hem of Jason's shirt in one fist. Jason places a supporting hand under the boy's elbow and guides him deliberately towards the stairs. "Alright, we'll take it slow."

Dick leads the small, exhausted procession, Damian just stirring in his arms. Jason watches as the youngest wakes enough to draw his arms around his brother's neck and push his face into Dick's shoulder. Jason follows, one arm supporting Tim. Tim's eyes are still nearly closed, and he stumbles on with only Jason's touch to guide him, his hand still tangled in his brother's shirt.

Halfway up the stairs, Jason hears the groggy murmur of Damian's voice.

"Grayson?"

"Yeah, Dami, we're just going up to bed, okay?" Dick hums.

"Did Walter's mother ever come back for him?" the voice queries.

Jason sees the way Dick's foot nearly misses the next step, hears how his breath hitches just the slightest bit.

"No, buddy," he lies into the soft hair. "Walter gets to stay with his uncles. Don't you think he'd be happier that way?"

"Mmhmm," Damian rubs his face in the crook of Dick's neck. "But why doesn't she want him?" The question is nearly inaudible.

The rest of Dick's breath leaves him in a whoosh. "I don't know, baby, I don't know."

"Sad," is the barely intelligible response.

"I know. But Walter has other people who love him, so much." Jason watches Dick press a kiss to the boy's temple as the child slides back into sleep. Dick's glance back at him as he reaches the top of the steps is devastated.

Jason only nods in weary acknowledgement, and steers his heavy-eyed charge into his room, while Dick disappears into Damian's.

Tim is easily maneuvered into bed, and relinquishes his hold on Jason's clothing only when the covers are drawn up around him. Jason runs a hand over the teen's hair, calming at the soft sigh as the boy tumbles into unconsciousness.

He slips back into the hallway, leaving Tim's door cracked the slightest bit, just as Dick is exiting Damian's room.

His eldest brother straightens before meeting his gaze, eyes glassy but resolute. The message is clear. _They need us now. _

Dick nods and, without another word, goes into his bedroom and shuts the door.

Jason never hears the lock snick into place.

He is left standing in the middle of the triangle his brothers' rooms make, and, with the burden of their safety weighing heavy on his soul, he smiles.

**Note**: For those of you who haven't seen _Secondhand Lions_, Walter's mother leaves him with two uncles while she travels. She actually does come back for him—after an extended vacation and another husband—and coerces Walter into departing with her. Walter, a few miles down the road, escapes her and makes his way back to his beloved uncles to stay. Obviously, this reminds Damian of Talia, hence everyone's reactions. Thank you for reading!


	4. Unsteady

**A/N**: Not exactly where I was expecting this to go, but I think I like it. This started out as a stand alone, but all my brothers just wormed their way into the story, so I'm including it in this series. Damian wanted to be cuddled again, so who am I to deny him? Anyway, I hope you enjoy. Hopefully I will be able to update quickly, but don't give up on me if it takes a while. Happy reading and please review!

_Mama, come here_

_Approach, appear_

_Daddy, I'm alone_

_'Cause this house don't feel like home_

_If you love me, don't let go_

_If you love me, don't let go_

_Hold, hold on, hold onto me_

_'Cause I'm a little unsteady_

_A little unsteady_

-X Ambassadors, _Unsteady_

The first nine years of his life being as they were, Damian did not regard death as most did. The Reaper was not a great, lurking, sinister villain, waiting to snatch him away from those he lov—_tolerated _when he wasn't expecting it. No, to Damian death was simply an inevitability—perhaps not a convenient one, but fate was rarely concerned with things like willingness and acceptance.

So when he dives, swinging under the spray of bullets only to have one of the deadly projectiles clip his line by pure, unlucky chance, he doesn't scream. He is the son of the Bat, a warrior in his own right, and he won't have his memory besmirched by any weakness in the moments before his death.

And then he's falling, desperate and heavy, hands scrabbling for a utility belt he knows is lying broken and useless on the rooftop he is no longer occupying. There will be no daring rescue, no last minute snag of his cape, because last he knew Red Hood and Red Robin were occupied across town, and Batman was lying nearly unconscious under the Black Mask's obscenely expensive shoe.

And maybe he understands just the tiniest bit why Jason was half out of his mind with rage and pain all those years, because he is dying and _no one is coming, _and that—even if it's his own fault—is a whole new hurt in and of itself.

He's not afraid—a rooftop dive gone wrong is a much less painful and drawn out end than he'd resigned himself to—but he is sorry. He's sorry that his legacy will fall to some faceless, nameless criminal. He's sorry that he wasn't smart or fast or strong enough to avoid such a common end. He's sorry that retribution will not be distributed for the wrong done him.

He's sorry Grayson will have to see and touch and carry his broken body.

He's even sorry he hasn't seen Drake and Todd tonight—if only because he lives to torment them. After all, if he has the time—ten stories—he might as well be honest with himself.

He's used up most of his time now, and he closes his eyes, as he'd rather not see the moment of impact—he allows himself that small weakness.

The next second is met not by unforgiving asphalt as he expects, but rather the jarring, painful, _welcome _collision of a larger, harder body with his own.

And then Grayson—because _of course of course _it is Grayson—has one steel-banded arm wrapped tight around him, and they are swinging, not falling.

"I've got you," the man murmurs into his hair, voice steady and firm. But Grayson's breath is faster than it should be, and his hand trembles just the slightest bit where it is pressed to Damian's ribs.

Damian has seen enough in his short years to know what fear looks like. And maybe, just maybe, the physical signs of Grayson's fear make the way Damian's quaking arms creep up around his brother's neck a little bit okay.

The night is silent, free of gunfire, by the time they land stumblingly, near a dilapidated apartment complex. Damian doesn't question where their adversaries have disappeared to or how, because if there's one thing he has learned, it's that Grayson is the next thing to God, or at least to Father, and is capable of unexplainable miracles.

Grayson has steadied during their brief flight, but his instability seems to somehow have transferred into Damian. He has no earthly idea why he should be afraid _now, _but the cold of it seeps into his bones, and he shakes, practically vibrating, held in Grayson's arms.

His brother only hitches him higher, both arms circling him now with a ferocity that threatens to knock the breath right out of him.

There are words, which he can't seem to grasp, spilled against his temple, and the small still-functioning part of his brain registers a dull, muffled answer from Grayson's comm unit.

His brother starts walking in a seemingly random direction, not loosening his grip for an instant, and they don't stop until the Batmobile finds them.

Tim is at the wheel—and who the hell is responsible for _that, _he wonders—and Jason sits in the back, ankle propped on the console between the front seats. The car is barely built to fit the four of them, and Jason makes grabby hands—well, technically one hand, because the other is bloody and cradled to his chest—for Damian as Dick attempts to squeeze them through the door. Damian feels the stubborn shake of Dick's head against his, and Jason subsides, slumping wearily into the corner to give them more room.

Drake, for probably the first time in his life, breaks the speed limit—and maybe the space-time continuum—to get them home in record time.

Then the car is parked, carefully, of course, in its proper spot, and Damian is soothed by the familiar precision of Alfred's voice as they all stagger out of the tight space, Damian's feet never touching the ground and Tim supporting Jason as he limps.

"My, we have had an eventful night, haven't we, sirs." Alfred's voice is close, and Damian feels a warm hand touch briefly to his back. The insignificant touch forces a strange hiccup-y sob out of him, and he burrows further into Grayson's heat.

"Okay, Dami," Grayson croons, walking them over to the med bay, where Todd and Drake have disappeared to.

"You two alright?" He can feel the rumble of Dick's deep voice in his chest as he speaks to their siblings.

"Yeah," Jason replies, then hisses. "You could be a little gentle, Replacement, damn," he snaps.

"And you could stop deliberately throwing yourself into situations without an exit strategy. I knew you were reckless, Jason, but I didn't think you were stupid as well," Tim shoots back crossly.

Jason huffs in the way that means he's either annoyed or he can't think of a good comeback.

"If no one's dying," Dick intercedes dryly, "I'm taking Dami up. You guys should follow shortly." He pauses thickly. "We can all use some rest tonight."

A snort and a grunt answer him, but they are noises of agreement.

Then they are moving again, and Damian is lulled by the easy rocking motion of Dick's body as they ascend the stairs.

In Damian's room, Dick makes to set him down on the bed. A strangled sound—it is not a whimper, it is _not_—emits from his throat and he scrambles to stay attached to his brother, arms like a vise around his neck.

Dick's hand rubs soothingly up and down his back, and he shushes him gently. "Hey, it's okay, it's okay. We're just gonna get you in some pajamas, okay? Not letting go, I promise."

Damian's grip loosens just enough for Dick to slip free, and he rummages in a drawer with one hand, keeping the other pressed to Damian's chest. He emerges victorious with Damian's winter set of nightwear clutched in his fist. Damian wants to tell him that's the wrong pair, because it's _June, _but his teeth clack together with the violence of his shivers and his hands are numb with cold.

Dick seems to understand this, and he quickly and efficiently divests him of the uniform and wraps him in warm flannel.

There is a panicky moment when Grayson's touch leaves him altogether, but the man only strips off the top half of his own suit, tossing it on the floor, and pulls on a large _Bludhaven Police Department _sweatshirt he finds lying across the back of the desk chair. Damian barely has time to miss the contact before Dick is scooting him bodily over and climbing under the covers, next to him.

Dick curls Damian onto his side and pulls him close, chin settling on top of his head and arms banding around his back. Damian wants to argue that he is not a child, that he doesn't need Grayson's ridiculous method of comforting, that he's fine.

But that is so obviously untrue that he would hurt his brother's tender feelings, and he's not unnecessarily cruel, at least not with Dick.

So he allows himself the luxury of being held by the first person in the entire world to love him, and if the tears come hot and fast and silent, well, there is no proof but the wet splotches on Grayson's sweatshirt.

In the temporary privacy of their own little world, Damian cries like the child he still is and listens to Dick's breath hitch against his hair.

"I didn't—'m sorry—" he chokes, unsure of what he is even trying to say.

But Dick only clutches him tighter, one large hand cradling the back of his head while the other draws broad strokes on his back.

"Oh, baby," he breathes. "It's okay to be scared sometimes, Dami. It doesn't mean you're weak, or unworthy. It means you're human."

"But I m-messed up," Damian manages to stutter through the chattering of his teeth and the infernal tears.

"Yeah, you did." His heart sinks dreadfully. But, yes, he is at fault. He shouldn't have thought Batman would forget that little detail just because his protégé brushed fingertips with Death.

Dick pushes back suddenly, and Damian despises the way his throat constricts and his hands reach frantically for that comfort.

"No, listen to me, Damian," Dick takes his chin firmly in one hand, forcing him to meet clear blue eyes.

"You messed up, look at me, _because _you dove through a hail of bullets trying to _save _me. And I never, _ever _want you to do that again."

He pauses, closes his eyes as if in pain and blinks them open again.

"That was so colossally _stupid, _you little idiot. God, it was so close, I almost lost you," he continues in a hoarse whisper. "Do you understand that? I could have lost you, and I never would have forgiven myself."

Damian goes numb when Dick closes his eyes and rests their foreheads together. He blinks stupidly, trying to make sense of the fact that he doesn't seem to be in deep shit.

"So you're…not mad?" he asks hesitantly.

Dick laughs—a choked, wobbly thing, but a laugh nonetheless. He plops a fleeting kiss on the tip of Damian's nose and pulls the child back into their formerly entwined position before Damian can stop him.

"Oh I'm mad," he explains, a smile in his voice, "but right now I'm just so damn happy you're alive that I think you'll get off with a week of no patrol."

Damian opens his mouth to argue, thinks better of it, and closes it again. He harrumphs to save face.

"That's what I thought. Now go to sleep. Thank God it's summer or else they'd take you away from me on truancy charges alone."

Damian swallows thickly and twines his hands into Dick's shirt at the suggestion.

"I've got you," Dick repeats reverently, holding him impossibly tighter.

Through the slightly open door, there are the deliberate sounds of feet stomping up the stairs and the faint, accented reminder that "please, sirs, there is no need to act like a herd of elephants" following closely behind.

"Hear that, Replacement? You're disturbing Alfie," Jason's voice snarls.

"Yes," Tim snarks back, loudly, "Because I'm the one wearing twenty-pound combat boots."

"Oh, well, let's just wake up the whole damn house, why don't we!"

"I don't need to, you oaf! Your big elephant feet got the job done just fine!"

"You're treading a thin line, Babybird, and I wouldn't cross—"

There is a thump and the scuffle of running feet, the slam of a door.

Damian feels Dick smile against his temple while death threats are tossed through the thin barrier of Tim's bedroom door.

Dick's body has relaxed against him, but has not yet reached the boneless quality that means he has surrendered to dreams. Dick tucks him as close as two bodies can possibly be, and Damian sighs in response.

Under the layers of flannel pajamas and blankets, in the haven of his brother's arms, Damian is finally, finally warm.

With the feel of Dick's chest rising and falling against his own, and the sound of Tim and Jason shouting at each other down the hall, Damian drifts into a perfect, dreamless sleep.


	5. The Sanctity of Dreams

**A/N**: Hello, everyone! First off, I am so, so sorry for the huge gap between updates. Finals murdered me a little bit, but I'm back now. This piece was really fun to write, and I may or may not have cried a little during its creation. If y'all haven't noticed by now, I do like to include lyrics from the songs that I listen to while writing each story, so be sure to check those out. Anyway, happy reading, let me know what you think, and I hope to hear from you all at the next update!

_That tall grass grows high and brown,_

_Well I dragged you straight in the muddy ground_

_And you sent me back to where I roam_

_Well I cursed and I cried, but now I know…now I know_

_And I ran back to that hollow again_

_The moon was just a sliver back then_

_And I ached for my heart like some tin man_

_When it came oh it beat and it boiled and it rang…it's ringing_

_Ring like crazy, ring like hell_

_Turn me back into that wild haired gale_

_Ring like silver, ring like gold_

_Turn these diamonds straight back into coal._

_The Stable Song—Gregory Alan Isakov_

He dreams of the sea, and of his father.

Not Willis. His mother had told him once that Willis left the first time when he was six weeks old, didn't come home for three days. In the years that followed, the gaps between his visits ran longer than the visits themselves—which occurred mainly when he ran out of cash—until one day he just didn't come back. Jason didn't miss him, not even at that young age. Donating a Y chromosome hadn't made Willis Todd a father in any sense but the biological.

No, he dreams of Bruce.

In the dream, Jason is young. Younger than he is now, at least. He can feel the absence of bulky muscle in his limbs, in the way he flies easily over the rickety fence posted in the sand of the Carolina beach, in the way he floats for that one fraction of a second after he flings himself into the air and before he crashes into the waves.

The sand is a fine grit between his toes and around his ankles, and his running steps send it flying in a glittering spray. The water is an almost clear blue-green in the late afternoon light. The loose sand gives way to gently curved dunes and brownish green grass farther back, the fence he leapt over moored in the tangled roots of some low-lying flower. Beyond the fence lies a house, small and quaint, painted a light blue softened by time and weather. It's a little shabby, but the sunny yellow shutters are cheerful, and its less than impressive size is not so intimidating to a young boy who lived on Gotham's dirty streets before he hit double digits. It sports one of those raised, wooden back porches, steps rising right out of the sand like they'd grown from it. An orange beach towel waves from the weathered railing, and a pair of boy-sized sandals lie discarded several feet from the last step, as if their owner had run right out of them. The edges of the house fade, its neighbors invisible, made into a private world in the fog of Jason's memory.

He remembers this place.

In the summer he turned fourteen, Bruce—although Jason had always suspected Alfred strong-armed him into it—had decided the two of them needed a vacation, citing bad press over his most recent, very public, break up with a supermodel, who flirted with the edges of certifiable insanity, as the cause. Alfred—being not overly fond of the seemingly omnipresent qualities of sand, once encountered—opted to hop the next flight to London to visit his mother. At that point, Bruce's relationship with Dick had been a rocky thing, their meetings defined by terse words and uncomfortable silence, usually ending in insult and hurt taken by one or both idiotic parties.

So it had just been the two of them.

Within 24 hours of Bruce's abrupt announcement, they'd packed, thrown a couple of brand new surfboards and a cooler into the back of Bruce's least expensive car, and headed for the beaches of South Carolina.

For one near perfect week, the world beyond their small rented cottage and stretch of beach did not exist.

Time seemed slower in that week, weighted by the thick heat and the strength of kept promises. Jason feels that now, in the dream, each second seeming to rest on him, briefly, before taking flight once more, as if to assure him that it was actually there.

He drags himself from his prone position in the waves, rolling and grinning and spitting salt water when the swell finally relents and allows him to breathe. There's sand down his shorts, and he squats briefly to shake them out. Rising again, he splashes through the surf, flinging water droplets in his wake. His hair is plastered to his forehead, and when he raises a hand to shove it away he notices that its natural auburn-y red is starting to peek through the layer of black dye. Sand adheres to his wet legs as he jogs up the beach, but it is a good feeling.

On the beach, under a ridiculously large and hideous umbrella, Bruce lounges in a low beach chair. Jason's breath catches in his throat, but his body keeps moving forward as if it doesn't notice the difficulty.

Bruce looks good, younger as well. He wears red board shorts, a sky blue fisherman's shirt hanging open at the chest, and a pair of Wayfarer sunglasses. His feet are bare, half-buried in sand. His skin has a light tan and his hair shines black as a crow's wing in the sunlight. When he pushes the sunglasses up onto his head, there are fewer lines around the blue eyes than Jason remembers.

That blue sweeps over Jason and he smirks. "You look like a drowned rat, kid. Swimming requires more than lying down and letting the water do its worst, you know."

God, he can't remember the last time he heard that voice. He lets it wash over him, roll him around like the waves.

He clears his throat, molds his mouth into a weak reflection of Bruce's. "Yeah, well, I don't see you getting your feet wet. Afraid of the fishies, old man?"

Bruce rolls his eyes. "Most people don't consider 36 geriatric. I can still kick your ass nine ways to Sunday."

"We'll see," Jason says, his own remembered words echoing in his head. "I think I might've grown a couple inches. Whatcha gonna do when I'm taller than you?"

"We'll cross that bridge when hell freezes over," Bruce replies with a snort.

"You just wait," Jason promises.

"Okay, mister Jolly Green Giant," Bruce says, rising to his six plus feet, "what do you say we rustle up some grub?" He pokes a finger into Jason's clearly visible ribs. "I think I can probably use your ribs as a xylophone."

Jason huffs. "Fine, but I'm not eating anything you make from 'scratch' again. I think you may have permanently damaged my taste buds." The scorched, blackened remains of some meal swims into his memory and he mimes gagging.

Bruce harrumphs. "It wasn't that bad."

"Not that bad? The Jamesons' dog wouldn't even eat it, and I saw him swallow a half a rotted fence post the other day."

"Fine. It was awful. We won't have mac and cheese tonight."

Jason mutters "Thank God" under his breath.

They've meandered up the path by now, and Bruce's hand rockets towards him without warning, knocking him headfirst into the springy bushes.

"Hey!" he exclaims.

Bruce, half-grinning, picks him out of the bushes, setting him upright and plucking a leaf from his wild mass of hair before flicking it into his face.

"I think you've insulted me enough for one night. Shut up and go rinse off before I decide to cancel the hot dogs and smores game plan."

Jason salutes him, ducks the mock swing, and scrambles to clean up as Bruce disappears inside, the screen door slamming behind him.

Those old feelings creep into his mind as he uses the garden hose to wash the sand down his legs and through the cracks on the porch. Even now, he can feel the echo of his own astonishment at his adopted father's new attitude in their week of respite. Bruce had never been the warmest of mentors. In fact, Dick—during their feud—had gone so far as to call him a cold-hearted bastard. Jason knew that Bruce regarded him as a partner, a protégé. He knew that Dick had experienced a side of Bruce during his years at the manor that Jason only caught glimpses of now. That was okay. Bruce didn't want to see him as a son, and that was fine. Jason wasn't a child.

But this week…well, he didn't expect this side of Bruce to stick—he knew it wouldn't, not really. But it was nice, just the same.

Jason shuts off the hose and slips through the back door without drying his feet. He bypasses the two bedrooms, decorated in airy blue and ocean-themed accessories, and heads for the kitchen, sliding a little when his wet feet meet hardwood floor.

Bruce is in front of the microwave, staring in confusion and annoyance at the mess of exploded hot dogs inside. Jason stops beside him, whistles.

"All I did was follow the instructions," he says, bewildered.

Jason grabs a paper towel, swabs away the mess, and pops the rest of the hot dogs in. He swipes the bag of super-sized marshmallows from Bruce's hand and boosts himself to sit on the counter.

"You know, if you'd lived thousands of years ago, you probably would've died from starvation. Natural selection." Jason manages to eat three marshmallows before Bruce notices and steals them back.

"You're a riot," Bruce says drily.

"I try."

When the hot dogs are done Bruce slaps them on a couple of buns, shoves one into Jason's hand, and they sit on the porch.

It's quiet, except for the rushing sound of the waves. They finish their meal, roasting marshmallows on the fire Bruce started earlier. Jason reclines in a near-comatose post-meal stupor at the foot of the steps, while Bruce sits two steps above him and sips a beer.

"Can I have some?" Jason asks, the taste of marshmallow sugar heavy on his tongue.

"Nope."

"I had my first beer when I was nine, Bruce. You're not protecting my innocence or anything."

"Don't care. You're underage, you don't drink." Bruce reaches into the cooler behind him and hands Jason a bottle of water. "Try not to grow up so fast, kid. It's not as great as it looks."

Jason grumbles, but accepts the offering, rinsing the sugar from his mouth.

They sit in silence for a long time, letting the whispering water do the talking for them. Jason's eyelids grow heavy as the sun winks out of sight and the moon casts the sea and sand in silvery light. He finds himself leaning back against the stairs, the middle step digging into his back, his head resting on the top step by Bruce's leg. He slips into a half-doze.

Sometime later, the feel of two big hands hoisting him up wakes him. He's swaying on his feet for a bare second before Bruce's arm sweeps behind his knees and he's cradled like a small child in his mentor's arms.

A prickle of sadness aches in his heart, and he doesn't protest. In all the years, Bruce had only carried him to bed four times, usually when he was too exhausted or beat up from patrol to make it on his own.

This one had been the last.

They pass through the screen door, and he lets his head loll on Bruce's shoulder, the shirt underneath his cheek smelling slightly of detergent and salt and sea. His feet brush the wall as Bruce attempts to guide them through the doorway to Jason's room.

The sheets are cool when Bruce's settles him gently on the bed. Jason rolls toward him as the man tugs the covers into place. His eyes are hot with sudden tears, and one rolls down his cheek into the hair just above his ear.

"Hey, now," Bruce says, "what's this?" He sits on the edge of the bed.

He hadn't stayed like this, Jason remembered, not back then. He'd only touched a hand briefly to Jason's hair and slipped out the door, uncomfortable and helpless in the presence of tears. He stays now.

It is, after all, Jason's dream, and there is no accounting for the unreasonable desires of the heart.

Bruce's hand is warm on the back of his neck, and he buries his face in the slightly scratchy pillowcase.

"I miss you," he mumbles into the detergent-scented fabric. "I'm still so mad at you, but it hurts now, too."

"Me too, kid," Bruce sighs. When Jason looks at him his face seems to flicker, young one moment and older the next. But even the older version of Bruce's face is not as Jason remembers. The lines are there, deeper, but there's no anger in the hard lines. He only looks tired, and worn.

"Where did you go?" Jason asks.

"Isn't that the question," Bruce remarks, not without humor. "You've been dead, kid. So your guess is as good as mine."

Jason doesn't comment, because that part of his life (death?) is not something he likes to dwell on, and he'll worry about the afterlife—if there is one—when it rolls around again.

"I moved back, you know. To the manor." It feels important that dream-Bruce knows this.

"I know. It's good. I never could seem to get all of you in one house when I was alive." He smiles.

The ache in Jason's chest intensifies. "Why—Did you…" He doesn't quite know what he wants to say.

Bruce does, though. "I didn't want to leave. Not you, not your brothers. But we don't always get what we want, Jason, and from what I can see, my death seems to have done more good than harm."

"No," Jason whispers, hurting, "not for me. Not for them."

Bruce's eyes soften with sorrow. "I always wanted to stay. Even here, when you needed me and I walked out the door. I told myself that a teenage boy was able to handle his own hurts, probably didn't want me to coddle him through his tears. I told myself that I wasn't your father. But I was wrong, wasn't I?"

_Yes. _Jason has no idea if he says it aloud or only in his mind, but Bruce nods, all the same.

"You'd think I'd have learned, huh? Four of you, and I still made the same mistakes." He pauses, and Jason sees the regret in his shoulders, deep in his shadowed eyes. "You were my biggest fear, the four of you. I think you understand that, don't you?"

And he does. "I'm scared. Of losing them, I mean. And it makes me ugly and cruel and insufferable. I hurt them." There's no shame in admitting it now, in the depths of his own mind, to his memory's resurrection of his father.

"Yes. You and I, we're made of similar stuff." Bruce huffs self-deprecatingly. "Dick was always so _good_, you know. He had his darkness, but there was always that light to overbalance it. Tim, too. Damian's young yet, and Dick's had a better hand raising him than I. But you and me…we're not very good at loving, are we?"

"No," Jason concedes in a whisper. "Dick says it can be learned, though."

The grin threatens to split Bruce's face. "Yes, I imagine it can." He strokes a hand through Jason's auburn-y hair, and the smile softens. "In fact, you may want to get a start on that right about now. Wake up, Jason."

"But—" he protests.

_Wake up, Jason._

"Jason! Wake up."

He rouses with a start, his surroundings spinning before settling into the familiar green lines of his bedroom at the manor. Dick's hand is on his bare shoulder, his brother's concerned face swimming somewhere above his head.

"You, um, you were…"

Jason's face is wet, tears cooling as they dry.

"Yeah," he mutters, hoarsely. He scrubs a forearm over his eyes, effectively dislodging Dick's comforting hand, but doesn't sit up. "Fucking dreams, man."

"Ah," Dick says, straightening. "I guess I'll let you…" He makes a vague gesture, backs towards the door.

The echo of Bruce's words in his mind, Jason shoots out a hand, circles his fingers around his brother's wrist. "Wait…"

Dick freezes, stiff and shocked, waiting.

"I—" Jason swallows, mouth dry. It galls his pride, but he manages to say it.

"Stay."

Dick and Bruce don't look alike, except for the similarity of those blue eyes, but for a moment Jason sees the shadow of Bruce's face overlaying his brother's. Then it's gone, and Dick smiles in pleased puzzlement.

"Okay."

Jason rolls to the far side of his bed, allowing Dick to settle in beside him, back against the headboard.

You wanna talk about it?"

"Nope." But Jason turns so that his body is parallel to Dick's, his forehead almost touching his brother's hip.

"Alright," Dick sighs.

Several minutes creep by, and Jason feels his body begin to go lax, sleep pulling once more at the corners of his mind.

"Hey, Dick," he murmurs.

"Yeah?"

"I, um…I just want—" He stutters, exhaustion slurring his words together.

"I know," Dick says quietly. "You never have to say it, not to me."

Jason sighs, body relaxing completely. Without his permission, his body seems to be touching Dick's in several places—forehead to hip, knee to calf—but he's too tired to move, so he lets his brother's warmth seep into his skin and soften the ache in his heart.

Sleep claims him gently, leaving him with the phantom feel of his father's hand on his head, the real length of his brother's body along his own, and the cleansing coolness of tears on his cheeks.

In the morning, he'll wake with the rushing of the sea in his ears.


	6. Temptation and Refuge

**A/N**: Ok so PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE CONTINUING. This chapter turned out a lot darker than I had planned, and includes mentions of rape and child abuse. Please be aware of this before reading. That said, I did work hard on this, and I hope that my writing correctly portrays the characters and does them each credit. Anything you recognize is not mine. Please read and review, thanks!

Jason has been living in the manor for five months now, and in that time he has not killed.

It's not an effortless transition. He's still angry, still solid in his societally dicey moral judgments. See, for him, taking life has never been a reaction—it is forever an _action_. Killing is not something that happens when he is blinded by rage and fury and self-righteousness. Murder—even that of worthless, drug-dealing, criminal scum—is something best done in cold blood, and he has not been warm in a very long time.

For Jason Todd, the taking of life is a deliberate action, each soul weighed and measured, added to the tally of black marks that he will one day answer for.

He's always been a patron of instant gratification, and what is a few more years added to his eternity in hell—if there is a hell, which he's still not sure of—compared to the lives spared by the death of this or that piece of shit.

When he moves back into the manor, he curbs his more violent tendencies out of respect for the tentative, fragile thing that is his relationship with his brothers. His Beretta is now kept in a drawer of the nightstand in his room. He takes it out sometimes, looks at it, and wonders what the hell he is doing here. Bruce would be abhorred at even the presence of a firearm in the house, and here Jason is, balancing a handgun in his palm every night before patrol.

He thinks it speaks well of his character that every night so far he has replaced the weapon in its cage.

The temptation does not go away. It does not get easier to deny, but he does it, just the same.

He hides it well, that lure.

Dick is so devastatingly happy that Jason is even speaking to his pseudo-siblings—much less living with them—that he is…well, not blinded, but selective about what parts of Jason he chooses to see. Jason is a kept lion, not tame, but beloved. Dick forgets sometimes that he is still a wild animal, dangerous, and he sees the startled disappointment and fear on his brother's face when he can't quite retract his claws.

Damian regards him in the same puzzled, detached manner which he views everyone but Dick. The little assassin doesn't hold Jason's past attempts on his life against him. The child is, after all, half al Ghul, and what are a few murderous urges between family members?

Tim, though, Tim does not forget, nor does he possess the questionable principles that allow Damian to dismiss their rocky past. With the teen's natural brilliance and Bruce's added training, Tim is incapable of overlooking what exactly the second Robin has become. Jason doesn't expect him to. What surprises him is that Tim seems to be the only one to understand how _hard _Jason is trying, and is civil out of—respect?—acknowledgement of that effort at normality.

It is a conscious struggle, this new non-lethal side of himself, and living within the manor—and within the formidable shadow of Bruce's memory and iron-clad principles—makes that resolve just the slightest bit easier. He is hardly ever alone, on patrol, and he has never _needed_ a gun. Guns make the execution of justice less messy and the clean up messier, but he has other means to enforce the laws of the Bat.

So, for five months, he lives in his dead father's house, follows his dead father's unwritten rules, and tries to ignore that nagging voice inside of him that reminds him of what he truly is. And he is successful.

For a while.

It's not common for Jason to patrol alone these days, but it does happen. Tonight they are stretched thin. They are a united front, but corruption is a cancer in Gotham, forever eating away at some part of the city they have momentarily left unattended. Dick does not yet trust Damian—or Gotham—enough to let the Boy Wonder fly solo. So Batman and a cranky Robin are bogged down somewhere by the docks. Red Robin, according to a terse, breathless message over the comms thirteen minutes ago, is engaged with a lesser section of one of the major gangs—results pending.

And Jason is alone, in Crime Alley.

He walks uninhibited down the street, rolling a switchblade through the fingers of his left hand. He is two blocks from the shabby apartment where Catherine Todd lived and died, where he grew up. The place holds no draw for him now, and he continues his steady progress, vaguely listening to Tim's report that the gang has been subdued and Red Robin is making a sweep through the west end before their scheduled rendezvous.

The night is cool, making him hunch just a little lower into the collar of his jacket. He prefers the cold, though, to summer's heat. Summer in Crime Alley is near to unbearable, the humidity compressing the stench of garbage and unwashed bodies into a veritable cloud. He prefers the docks during the hottest months—at least the smell of salt and sea cuts the stink of Gotham's rot.

But right now is not so bad, kind of peaceful, in fact. He reaches up and detaches the helmet with a hiss, letting the chilly breeze ruffle his sweat-damp hair. The black dye he usually renews with unerring frequency has nearly washed out by now, leaving his hair a darkish auburn with its shocking streak of white. He knows that he shouldn't take the helmet off—even if he does have on a domino mask as well—but just now he feels entirely alone in the world, and it's not a wholly bad sensation. Even his comm unit is momentarily silent; so he walks and lets the silence fill him up as conversation rarely does.

There's a little chapel up ahead, incongruously wedged between a liquor store and a seedy motel. But then, Jason supposes the sequence of the buildings' placement is good business for all parties involved. The chapel is old, built of faded but solid gray stone, with a short iron fence all around, separating it from its less religiously inclined neighbors. It's nothing much to look at, slightly dilapidated and certainly not much frequented by the area's residents, but the semicircular window above the door is filled by stained glass. The glass doesn't depict any biblical scenes, no Godly feats, but there is something eye-catching about the multitude of rioting colors all woven and thrown together in such a small space—a hundred shades of gold, green, red, blue, purple. He wonders that the little window hasn't been broken by now, but it remains whole, a small beacon of color and light in the darkness of the Alley.

It gives Jason pause, and he stands in front of the short gate, helmet under one arm, switchblade in the other hand, head tilted in fascination, even as the wind picks up and Dick's annoyingly chipper voice squawks in his ear.

The voices become more insistent at his silence.

_"Bat to Hood. Come in, Hood."_

_ "This is Red 2. Red 1, please report. What's your 20?"_

_ "I swear to God, Hood, if you don't answer this second, I'm going to—"_

Jason sighs, his small pocket of peace dissolving with a near audible pop. "I'm here. Don't give yourself a hernia, mother hen."

He hears Dick's muffled exhale of aggravation and relief. _"Well, learn how to answer a phone, would you?" _Jason grumbles as Dick pauses. _"Red Robin is en route. Stand by for further instructions."_

Jason suppresses the childish urge to assert that Bats is not the boss of him, and grunts an affirmative.

"Roger that. Red 2, can I get an ETA?"

_"2 minutes. Got caught in another, erm, situation." _There is the distinct sound of a fist striking flesh.

"Assistance?"

_"Nah. Be there in a few."_

"Right-o, Replacement. I—"

The agonized, hair-raising scream shatters the quiet and has Jason sprinting for the corner.

_"Hood, don't—"_

Tim has obviously heard also, because the teen's voice rises in both volume and insistence. Jason ignores him, mind at once sharp and focused, shiny helmet dropped by the wayside in his haste. He rounds the corner without slowing and with little regard for caution.

Even then, he is too late.

The woman lies bloody and mussed on the filthy pavement. Jason seems only able to take in the horrid scene in small glimpses—the too-bright blond hair, one bare foot and one glossy black heel, the severe scarlet of her dress, rucked and torn.

The blood blossoming in a gruesome smile across her throat.

She is young—too young—and something about the shape of her mouth reminds him of his mother, but she is dead, and her killer is standing above her body, hand fumbling at the fly of his pants.

Jason's vision goes red.

He thinks he blacks out for a brief second, and during that time he is caged within the memory of too-big, sweaty hands and harsh breathing in a dark room and his own desperation and fear.

When he returns to himself, the man has stumbled back several steps.

The switchblade has never left Jason's left hand, and it is nothing to slit the man's throat. It's done in the blink of an eye, and Jason stands frozen between the prone bodies of victim and murderer, figures strangely mirrored in death.

Tim finds him crouched in the corner of the alley, head clutched in his hands, knife still clinched tight in one fist.

There is a place in his mind, a pocket of peace not unlike that he found in the silence in front of the tiny stone chapel earlier, where he goes when life becomes too much for him. He tucks himself away there, folded into himself, small and bowed. It is his last defense, his last refuge, when he thinks he is finally, _finally _going as crazy as everyone seems to think he is. He discovered it within the confusion and helplessness of early childhood, when his mother lay insensible on the sofa and his father argued loudly with men come to collect on his gambling debts in the front room. He used the space in the last moments before his death, even as his heart cried for Bruce. He used it when he was fresh from the grave, and half insane with fear and bewilderment and hurt. He used it when they told him his father was dead.

He wants to use it now.

But Tim is there, and Tim's hands are all over him, patting his cheek sharply and prying the switchblade from his cold fingers and shaking him by the shoulders.

The black spots fade from his vision and his hearing returns with a roar.

"Hood!" Tim's fingers tangle in the bloody edges of his jacket. "Are you hurt? _Jason_. Answer me, damn it!" The teen barks something into his radio.

"No. No, I'm fine." His voice is tinny and faint in his ears.

The lenses of Red Robin's mask are up, and Jason sees in the wide blue eyes that the teen fully comprehends exactly what happened here.

"Well, you don't seem to be bleeding, but I highly doubt you're fine. Come on. Up you go." The boy hoists him to his feet with a strength belied by his slight build. "The police are on their way and we need to move. The hero does not need to be caught holding the murder weapon."

Jason makes a high, strangled sputtering that may or may not be laughter, and Tim peers at him suspiciously.

"Are you going into shock? You'd better not be." Tim steers him with an iron grip in the shoulder of his jacket. Jason stumbles along beside him as the teen communicates urgently to the dynamic duo.

"Yes, I've got him. He seems to have at least a minor case of shock so I'm—no, he's not bleeding anywhere that I can see…Alright…Yes, the car's almost here. I'll call you when we get there…Watch yourselves. Red, out."

His brothers' responses are a buzz he can't quite understand through the ringing in his ears, and Tim jerks him to a stop right before the car screeches to a halt.

The teen shoves him into the passenger side, tossing his discarded helmet in after him, and takes the driver's seat. They don't speak, not to each other, and the car is silent but for the brief conversation Tim has with Alfred.

Even the dimmed lights of the cave are too bright after the blackness of Gotham at night, and Jason lets his eyes slide shut until the car jolts into Park.

Tim is at the passenger door again, pushing and pulling until he is on his feet and moving towards the med bay. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Tim wave Alfred off and the butler exits discreetly.

It's not until the cots and IV's are looming close that Jason begins to struggle.

"I'm _fine. _I said I was fine."

"I know what you said." The teen's grip is like steel, and Jason squirms and writhes, but he can't get free. "Sit, Jason."

"No. I won't!" He's breathing heavily and sweating and shivering all at once, and he does _not_ want to sit there with Tim's analytical mind picking him apart for his sins.

"Jason, you're not fine." Oh, use the patient's name consistently. Identify with him, form a connection, get him to spill his filthy guts. Tim tries to propel him onto a cot, but he twists, jumping away from the clean sheets like they've burned him.

"You think this is the first blood I've spilled, Pretender?" He laughs wildly, out of control and unable to stop himself. "I've killed. I've watched the light go out in a man's eyes and smiled while I choked the life out of a piece of human filth. I'm a fucking murderer, and you—you are_ nothing_! What makes you think you know a damn thing about me, huh?"

Tim stands there, unwavering, and lets Jason rage. And when he pauses for breath, Tim shoves his exhausted body onto the bed.

"Because, you ignorant bastard, no matter that each of us may prefer otherwise, you're my brother. And this one has you rattled." The teen tries to shuck Jason out of his bloody jacket, but he curls his arms in tight. "So. Either you tell me what's going on—besides you _killing _a man tonight—or I'll get Alfred to torture it out of you via disapproving looks and copious amounts of tea."

Tim takes a tentative seat on the lone chair, facing Jason, body still tensed to catch him should he make a break for it.

Jason sags. "Hard-ass," he says dispassionately.

Tim nods in agreement. "Look…I know. I know how hard you've been trying. So whatever made you lose control tonight…if there was some trigger…then I need to know so I can help you avoid those kinds of situations in the future. What's going on, Jason?"

Jason tries to breathe steadily through his nose. "I swear to God, if you try to psychoanalyze me after this…" He clutches the sides of his jacket together with stiff hands.

"Just tell me."

Jason closes his eyes, stilling the slight tilting of the fluorescent lights and anchoring himself.

"He r-raped her. Did you see?" His voice is small.

"I assumed as much." Tim pauses. "Was she…very much like your mother?"

Jason shivers. "There was something…but no. Not really." His fingers begin a twitching tattoo against his thigh. "When I was little Catherine wasn't always…there. And when she was, she wasn't overly choosy about the company she kept. After Willis left, I think she loved him, and she didn't know how to cope. You've read the files."

He pins the teen with his eyes. Tim nods. "Yes. You lived on the streets for a while. Before Bruce found you."

"I did. That was after, though. Before…Every man was measured against Willis, and was found wanting, but she kept—searching, I guess." He shakes his head. "She wasn't in a good place. When they were done with her…sometimes they had tastes that extended towards the…depraved."

He sees the realization dawning in Tim's eyes, the horror. "No…"

"Most times, I was in the wind by the time they closed the bedroom door. But once, I came back and he was still there. I don't know where she was, passed out or sleeping or what, but he—he was bigger than me, and I wasn't as fast as I needed to be."

He glances up, once, then fixes his eyes firmly on his feet, unable to bear the sorrow and terror he sees in that innocent blue gaze.

"Oh," Tim says. "Oh, Jason."

"He wasn't gentle," he says shortly. "When he was done, after he'd left, she was sorry. She held me, and she cried, and she said it would never happen again. And it didn't. Because I was long gone every time a stranger opened the door."

He feels detached, as if the telling of it has put him in a sort of trance.

"What I saw tonight…I didn't think. I saw that john's hands on her, and I felt _his _hands on me, and I killed him without a second thought. And I'm not sorry, not even a little."

Jason stops, empty and hollow with his confession. Tim sits frozen in the chair.

"So you tell me, Replacement. What the hell can you say to make that better?"

Tim stays a statue for a moment, clears his throat. He raises his eyes to meet Jason's.

"No, you're not sorry for killing him."

Jason laughs bitterly. "Didn't I just say that?"

"But," the teen says, head tilted, "you are sorry for disappointing us." He squints. "No, not us. Bruce. That's it, isn't it?"

Jason is suddenly, irrationally angry. "You don't know what you're talking about, Dr. Phil," he growls. "Daddy Bats is dead, and we weren't exactly pals before he bit it." The words seem to have no effect on Tim, but Jason feels the stinging bite of them inside himself.

Tim nods, accommodatingly. "Yes, well, Bruce wasn't exactly the warm and fuzzy type, now was he? But he cared, and you know it, and you're trying to make it up to him, even if he's dead and you still haven't completely forgiven him."

"That so?" Jason murmurs, lips numb.

"Penance. That's the word for it. You think if you live in his almighty self's house and follow his rules, you'll make up for all the years you hurt him, and he you. Reparation. And if you can't, at least you're punishing yourself, right?" Tim glares at him.

"What," he croaks, shocked.

"You think we haven't noticed? That you throw yourself into the most dangerous of our skirmishes, with no regard to your own safety whatsoever. You carry hardly any weapons, and you won't use that knife—except for tonight—even if you need it!" The teens voice rises steadily. "You're unsteady and erratic and violent. You're coming off as near suicidal, and you won't let us help you!"

"Oh, come on, Timmy. I said I was fine, okay?" He pushes a hand through his disheveled hair. "Tonight shook me up, for reasons everyone else is better off not knowing," he adds a glare, "but I swear I'm back to my normal, irritating, bloodthirsty self. Scout's honor."

Tim is out of his chair by now, and slaps away the three shaky fingers Jason holds up in a mockery of the gesture.

"I'm good, Timbo. I swear. So, can we go upstairs now? I'm dying for a shower and a hot toddy."

"No," Tim snaps angrily, "you're hovering on the edge of shock, and I'd bet the damn Batmobile you're hiding bruises under that jacket."

Jason clutches said clothing tighter reflexively. He's a big man, he should be able to push past Tim easily, but somehow the teen manages to shove him back onto the cot when he tries.

Before he can protest, he is reclining against the pristine sheets, stripped of his jacket and armor, with Tim's gentle, _cold _fingers probing the array of bruises decorating his ribs and shoulder.

"At least buy me dinner first, geez."

Tim eyes him with a disparaging gaze. "Not funny, Jay. None of this is a joke."

He sobers. "No, it's not. But ill-placed humor is a trademark of mine, and I'm not likely to change my ways at my advanced age."

Tim grunts. "I am sorry, you know, for the child you were. More sorry than I can say. But I also possess the near constant urge to strangle your adult self."

"Yes, well, you're not alone in that." Jason sags. He feels the cool touch of Tim's hand on his forehead when he closes his eyes. "Thanks."

"Don't mention it. Just try not to get stabbed or beaten bloody for the next few days and I'll consider us even."

Jason thinks he nods. He's not sure. His extremities are numb with cold, and his head feels like it's floating about a foot above his body.

He feels Tim tug off his boots and draw the blanket around his freezing feet.

"Don't tell them," he mumbles, "Alfred and Dickiebird, the kid especially. I don't—I don't want them to know. Even Bruce didn't…they would look at me different, and I don't deserve anyone's pity."

Tim huffs. "You do, actually. You deserve something, because no child should ever, _ever _have to endure that."

Jason grasps his sleeve with sudden insistence. "Promise. Promise me, don't tell them."

"Jason," Tim says with bruising gentleness, "there's no shame in it. You were abused, and there is no way that was your fault."

"I don't want their pity. I'm not a victim, Baby Bird, not anymore." His eyes fairly burn with anger and sincerity. "_Promise_, Tim."

The teen looks uncomfortable, but nods. "Alright. I promise."

"Good." Jason's grip loosens. "His number one rule, wasn't it—we do what we do, and we shut up about it. So you keep me on the straight and narrow, and this little secret goes to the grave."

"I said alright, didn't I?" Tim softens. "I know you've been trying. It's good. He'd be proud."

"I live for approval," Jason says sarcastically.

"Well, you've got mine."

Tim replaces his own uniform with a soft t-shirt and sweatpants as Jason fumbles for something to say.

"Bats and the demon should be back pretty soon. I can steer them off if you want."

Jason shakes his head. "I can handle it. He needs to know I messed up."

Tim shrugs. "Suit yourself. You should rest.""

Jason knows with certainty that he is not getting a single minute of sleep tonight. "Think I'll just wait up for them."

Tim moves to the side of the bed and pushes on Jason's shoulder. "In that case, shove over. The chair's damn uncomfortable, and I'm cold." He slips under the blanket, thin, angular shoulder wedged against Jason's.

"What the hell, Replacement," Jason growls warningly.

"Relax. You need body heat, and Big Brother is less likely to strangle and/or cuddle you to death if I'm here."

Jason grumbles and shares the blanket, if somewhat ungraciously.

Tim acts as his own personal heater, and neither of them speaks for a very long time.

The alarm signaling the return of their erstwhile siblings sounds, and Jason startles. Tim tucks his shoulder further into his brother's.

"I'm still not sorry, you know," Jason says hoarsely.

Tim doesn't so much as look at him, but Jason feels the conviction in his reply.

"Neither am I."

They face the approaching footsteps together.


End file.
